TWO MEN AND MARY

Wairarapa Times-Age, 20 May 1938, Page 10

TWO MEN AND MARY

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

By.

HOLLOWAY HORN.

(Author of “George,” “That Man at Claverton Mansions,” etc.)

CHAPTER X—Continued. “Yes,” Mary smiled. She had a compartment to herself, a good book and the world seemed a brighter place than it had done the day before. The hotel, she had chosen was definitely not one of the first class, but. it. was all she wanted. She spent the evening in the lounge and most of it was occupied in writing a long letter to McCarthy. , She wished him luck in his new venture and ended on a flippant note by offering to come down one afternoon when she returned and use some of his eggs in making an omelette. Of the disquiet and unrest which had assailed her during the last days she said nothing, which fact in itself had a significance. The following morning she was out early. There were certain formalities to be observed before one could'go into the Casino, she discovered, but the manager of her hotel promised to arrange matters —to “fix” things, as Laurette would have said. The morning was overcast, but as she walked up the hill to Monaco the sun came out and. the sea below was almost as blue as, it appears in its posters. .. Like most people who visit it, she found the old town of Monaco very much more interesting than its modern, spectacular neighbour, Monte Carlo. The old courtyards with the carved staircases,. the funny little cafes, the palace with its comic opera soldiers all seemed to belong to another and a calmer world. She had lunch in a cafe overlooking the sea and felt in no hurry to return to Monte Carlo. “I suppose there’s no difficulty about a lady going into the Casino alone?” she asked the bearded manager of her hotel after dinner that evening. “No, Mademoiselle. You have your teecket; it is enough! But one of your countrymen is staying here. He asked me if you were alone. He would I am sure be delighted to escort you there.” “No, thank you, Monsieur,” she said. “I shall be quite all right.” “As Mademoiselle wishes, of course,” the polite Frenchman said.

Hatless, and wearing the fur coat which looked even more expensive than it actually was, she‘sauntered down to the Casino. It was brilliantly illuminated, but still looked. like the gigantic sugar cake it had appeared when she looked down on it from Monaco.

The manager had “fixed” things satisfactorily and there was no difficulty. She had to sign a form, pay a small, fee and she was free of the building.

It was too early for much of a crowd but they were playing roulette and baccarat at half a dozen tables. Mary Rossiter was not a gambler and the play had no attraction for her. But she was deeply interested in the scene, which has been described in so many books and stories. Somewhere she had read that the male gamblers were revoltingly fat and the females of the species harrowingly thin, but the statement, that., evening at least, could properly be left to the fiction in which she had readmit. It was the ordinariness of the people which struck her. The croupiers were far more arresting types—dark, Italian-looking men in the main. Most of the English and Americans there gave the impression of being what they probably were, quite pleasant people on holiday. There was a fair sprinkling of Germans, intent and serious and keen on winning. . > She watched the game carefully. As far as she could tell it was just blind chance, with the odds slightly in favour of the bank/ One or two people, she noticed, were copying down the numbers that turned up—a part, she assumed, of some elaborate and abortive system. 5 The whole business seemed pointless to her; the intentness on the faces of the gamblers mystified her. One woman, she noticed—a lovely brunette — was playing carefully She had a pile of “chips” in front of her and was apparently winning. Her finger-nails exactly matched the .rose she was wearing in her evening cloak. She never smiled, never spoke—just gambled with deadly carefulness. She was so sure of herself than one felt she must be an habitue. Surely, Mary Rossiter thought, a woman of her charm could find something else to do? But it wasn’t too easy to find things to do.

A young man in evening dress came up to her: “Forgive me, but you’re Miss Rossiter?” “Yes.” “My name is Murdock. I'm a Scot and staying at the Couronne. I wondered if I could be of any assistance to you.” She hesitated: “It’s kind of you, but “I work here in Monte . . live here. I’m in the Imperial Bank.” “I shall be in there tomorrow morning.” “Then you will see me at the counter and I shall call you Madame.” “We call them all ‘Madame,’ he said gravely. “Do you often come in here?”

“Very rarely. 1 see enough of money during the day. To be quite frank, I heard that you were coming here this evening . . ” “You're the young man the manager wanted to introduce?” “I’m afraid so.” “It would have been a simple matter to have told the young man—in Laurette’s phrase—where to get off, but he seemed so pleasant and polite and harmless that Mary decided to let him talk to her. “You like this place?” he was saying. She smiled: “It’s interesting.” “You get the real hard-boiled gamblers in later. They’be been here this afternoon and will be in again about ten o’clock.” . “They come here in the afternoon?” “They’d sleep here if they were allowed. Are you going to have a little flutter?” r _'j ; “No.” . “Really?” “Yes.” “Pretty strong-minded, if you ask me. I wonder how many people actually get into this room without having a shot.” “It doesn’t attract me. Do you know anything about that lady over there? The one with the brilliant finger-nails.” “A divorcee, I understand Roumanian. Her husband was American. She lives in Monte . . mainly in that chair. “She’s very lovely.” The young man shrugged his shoulder's: “I’ve a suggestion. Frankly I dislike this place. We could get the Funicular up to La Turbie and from there one can look down on Monte and the sea?”

“I think I prefer to stay here for an hour. It’s all so strange to me.” “Anyway you should go up in the daytime. ’Fraid I can’t offer to come with you,” he added with a smile. “But there are lovely views from the top.” “Have you been here long?” “Two years. I’ve only six weeks more to go and then I go' back to London.’

He was a nice fellow, with clear blue eyes and the high cheek-bones of the Celt.

“I’ve a feeling that I’ve met you somewhere before.’ “I don’t think so.” “Were you ever at Cambridge?” “Yes. At St Hilda’s.” “I was at St John’s.” “Two years ago?” “Yes. I knew I’d seen you somewhere.- Have a coffee? Or a drink? There’s a very wonderful bar here.” “Thank you.” “We’re almost old friends,” he said cheerfully as they sat in the chromiumplated bar. They walked back to the hotel together and she promised to go up La Turbie with him the following evening. In the morning the maid brought in a letter with her coffee. It was from Laurette. She had bluffed —the word is hei’ own—her people into letting her cut Marseilles and Cannes' and was coming on ahead of ’ them to Monte Carlo. Would Mary-get a room for her at the Couronne and meet the same train as she had- come it, on Friday evening? If convenient, wire. - Mary Rossiter smiled as she read the letter. She liked Laurette. And she could no. longer say that people were not interested in her. From her room she looked out to the blue sea. What was McCarthy doing over there on his farm in Sussex? A misty morning probably, colder than it was here. The trees would be shedding their leaves. He would have breakfasted—good solid bacon and eggs; almost she could savour the smell—alone. Solemnly, thoughtfully, she sipped her coffee. CHAPTER XI. Morning is the best time in Monte Carlo. Everything there is apt to look artificial, but the sunshine and the sea are authentic enough. And if one does not allow its pretentiousness to become irritating, it is an amusing place. The crowd outside the Cafe de Paris on a sunny morning is' like no other crowd on earth. Wealth is unmistakably the god; the women are expensively dressed. furred and jewelled, the whole place is sophisticated and unreal, but it is always interesting. Mary Rossiter sat idly watching the crowd. The very simplicity of her attire made her a distinctive figure. She noticed the woman she had seen at the tables the previous evening. Her lips were the colour of holly-berries, and she was accompanied by a lovely dalmatian. A striking, almost a bizarre, figure, as she slowly made her way to a table which had apparently been reserved for her. Money! Here one saw the limits of what money could do. Looking round, Mary noticed that three faces out of four were grim; few people smiled, and those few were obviously of the tourist class and not of Monte Carlo. She finished her coffee —which, rather to her surprise, cost not more than it would have done in a less spectacular place—and strolled through the town to the Imperial Bank in order to .cash one of her Traveller's cheques. (To be Continued.)